by Neil Hunter
Chapter Two
THEY left the town behind as they rode north in the general direction of the Yellowstone. It was a fine, clear day, the sky almost cloudless, and at any other time Brand would have enjoyed the ride. This time his attention was fully occupied with the reason he was here. He was aware, too, of how easy it would be for Raven to make his kill out here. The country they crossed was wide and undulating, a mixed terrain of flatland and low hills. There were grass-filled hollows and tree lined ridges, all offering good cover for a man setting up an ambush. A hundred men could lie concealed and never be spotted. Brand constantly checked out their surroundings, never once relaxing as he watched for any untoward movement, the telltale glint of sunlight on metal.
Yet he saw nothing, heard nothing that might indicate anything out of the ordinary taking place. He knew that didn’t mean a thing. Raven was a professional. He made his living by not being seen until it was too late.
From his previous encounter with the man Brand had marked Raven as a near-perfectionist. A man obsessed with minor details, and it had been that quirk that had tripped him up. Raven took great risks in order to gain the maximum advantage from any setup he chose. Because of that a man had lived, his life granted a reprieve over a few seconds delay. Those fragments of time had given Brand the chance to get the intended target to cover, away from Raven’s bullet. All because Raven wanted the perfect shot. Directly after Brand had gone after Raven as the assassin had fled the scene. Brand had caught a clear image of Raven’s face but had been unable to reach him in time. Raven had reached a busy street moments later, merging with the crowds, and had been lost.
Jason Brand found himself wondering how he would fare against Raven this time around. He didn’t fool himself into believing he was immortal. He could die as easily as the next man. It only needed a slightly quicker hand. A sharper eye. Brand lived a violent life in an equally violent land, and his trade was sudden death. He was no different to those he went after when it came to catching a bullet. They killed good and bad with equal indifference. A bitter smile touched his lips at that thought. Which was he? He walked the Law’s side of the line, but he often found it hard to toe that line. It was all too easy to step across and that change of direction made him doubt his own loyalties sometimes. If he sat back and thought about it, he realized he had never given a great of consideration as to where he did actually stand. His line of work demanded he be as hard and brutal as the ones he had to deal with. So what did that make him? Was it good destroying evil — or simply a greater evil destroying a weaker one? He knew of a number of good lawmen who had turned bad. On the other hand what about the reformed outlaws and gunmen who had done it in reverse and taken to wearing a badge? It was hard to see where it all began and ended. Too much thinking about the matter was liable to confuse a man.
The question still nagged away at the back of his mind. How would he match up to Raven. McCord’s file on the man had Raven credited with over thirty kills. How many more were there that had escaped the notice of the law? Raven made his living as a paid killer, and there was no getting away from the fact that he was good. Even so Brand wondered how he and Raven might match up. It was not done out of pride or bravado — simply as a matter of survival. He faced the fact he might end up bracing the man named Raven, and as a professional boxer weighed up his opponent, basing his decision on the other’s previous performance, so Brand tried to balance the scales between himself and the hired killer.
He realized he was riding alone, Sarah having moved alongside her father. They appeared to be in deep conversation Brand remained some way behind, distanced yet still close enough to be able to intervene if the need arose. Despite the open aspect of the land, the solitude, Brand felt secure in the knowledge that this would not be the time or place Raven would choose. He based his decision on pure gut feeling, not fully accepting it — there was always room for doubt, but he was fairly confident that the three of them had this part of Montana to themselves.
They rode for over a half hour. Lord Debenham suddenly reined in and swung down out of the saddle. Sarah joined her father. She caught Brand’s eye as he drew rein alongside them.
“Don’t you want to stretch your legs, Jason?” she asked.
He smiled at her. “Hardly been in the saddle long enough to warm it,” he replied.
“Seems to me, Mr. Brand, that you are more at home on a horse than behind a desk in Washington,” Debenham said, his keen eyes studying Brand.
“Could be because I’m from this kind of country myself, sir. Man learns to ride before he masters anything else out here.”
“As you say. I still think you live a hard life for someone from the Department of the Interior.”
Brand realized Debenham was referring to the still-visible bruises on his face. Souvenirs from his run in with the half-breed called Lobo.
“As well as a riding a horse I sometimes fall off, sir.”
Debenham studied him for a time, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of this tall, dark haired man, who wore a suit with the high-heeled boots of a Westerner. To his mind Jason Brand didn’t fit the mould of an observer from an obscure government department. He had not failed to notice that once they had arrived in Miles City, mixing with the locals, Brand had suddenly looked right. In Washington, while others had fawned around Debenham, Brand had stood out like a giant among pygmies. His tall, broad shouldered form could be seen prowling restlessly around the fringes of the gatherings. Clad in his dark suit, his strong-boned face deeply tanned, big hands dwarfing the slender glass of champagne, he had given off the impression of a caged animal yearning for the outdoors.
“If you keep falling off, Jason, perhaps you ought to try my sidesaddle,” Sarah offered, staring up at him with her soft lips pursed gentry in a lazy smile.
Debenham drew his silver-cased watch from his jacket. “Time we returned,” he said. He helped Sarah back on her horse, then mounted up himself. He led off, setting a steady pace, and the horse, ready to run, picked up the gait effortlessly.
On their arrival they stabled the animals and walked back towards the hotel.
“Coffee in ten minutes,” Debenham suggested.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, there are a few things I need to attend to,” Brand said.
“See you later,” Debenham said.
“Will you be long?” Sarah asked.
He shook his head. “I’ll be back.”
Leaving them Brand pushed his way along the crowded boardwalk, heading for Charlie Brown’s place. As he got closer he saw that the saloon hadn’t changed during his absence. It was crowded inside, noisy, the air heavy with the smell of smoke and liquor. Above it all he could smell the familiar odor of Charlie’s legendary stewpot. Brand elbowed his way to the bar finding himself a spot and raised a hand when Charlie Brown looked his way. Brown came down to Brand’s end of the long bar.
“What’ll it be?” Brown asked.
“Beer,” Brand said.
Charlie Brown turned away. He took two steps then stopped, turning, a wide grin beginning to cover his face.
“Jason Brand! I’ll be damned! I didn’t recognize you in that suit.”
“Goes with the new job, Charlie. How you been keeping?”
“You know how it is with me, Jason. As long as I keep on filling that stewpot the world goes on turning.” Brown studied the bruises on Brand’s face. “Doesn’t look as if the suit has changed your habits much.”
“It’s the class of people I have to mix with.”
“Hey, I heard about the trouble you had with the Marshal’s job. Sorry, Jason.”
Brand tipped his hat back. “You and me both, Charlie. I got over it.” He drummed his fingers on the bar, impatience showing on his face.
“So?” Brown asked. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m working.”
Brown grinned. “All right I won’t ask any more.”
“Do something for me, Charlie?”
“Sure.”
<
br /> “Let me know if you spot any gun hands around town. I don’t mean the players. I mean the professionals. Be obliged.”
“Sure, Jason.” Brown grinned again. “I had a feeling you didn’t come to town just to taste my stew.”
“I had some last time. Still getting over it.”
“I’ll get your beer.”
Before Brown could move a voice snapped: “Let the fancy suit wait. I want a bottle of whisky, Charlie, and I want it now!”
Brand turned to observe the intruder. He found himself staring up at a tall, heavy man dressed in range clothes, huge leather chaps, wearing a bullet-laden gun belt around his thick waist.
Greasy black hair spilled out from beneath a battered, stained hat that had seen better days. The face that scowled down at Charlie Brown was broad and thick-nosed, the dark eyes angry. A thick beard stubble darkened the man’s square jaw line.
“Mister, in my place I serve who I want in my own time, so you back off,” Brown said and turned away.
A massive hand reached out to grab Brown’s shirt. Before the thick, grubby fingers could hook into Brown’s sleeve another hand appeared. It slid across the big man’s hand and slammed it down on the bar top.
“Leave it,” Brand said. He spoke quietly and he only spoke once.
The big man threw an ugly look at Brand, jerking his own hand free. In an instant he spun round, reaching for Brand’s throat.
“I’ll kill you!”
The words burst from his mouth in a spray of saliva. Even as he was yelling the man lunged forward, but Brand was ready to counter his move. He’d been expecting the attack. Even as he was throwing his first punch his brain was telling him this was a setup. The big man’s demand for a drink had been too well timed, too deliberate to be anything other than a reason to brace Brand.
But why?
Brand hoped he lived long enough to figure that part out for himself.
His fist connected with the big man’s nose. Flesh and bone collapsed under the impact. The man yelled in pained surprise, reaching up to paw at his nose as it gushed blood. He fell back a step and Brand followed, hoping to maintain the advantage, driving in hard, telling blows to the others face and body. The big man stumbled, losing his balance. He went down, arms flailing. In the moment before he hit the floor he lashed out with his booted feet, catching Brand behind the knees. Brand felt his legs go from under him and crashed down on the saloon floor. He lay for a second, catching his breath, eyes focusing. He saw the big man already upright, swinging a chair. Brand twisted his body to one side as the chair came down at him. He heard the splintering of wood as it shattered on impact with the floor. Scrambling to his feet Brand half-turned, and saw the big man lumbering across the floor at him. A moment later the big man drove into him, lifting Brand off the floor. Brand spun backwards, colliding with a table. He rolled across it, scattering glasses and a bottle. Playing cards flew in all directions. The big man caught hold of Brand before he slid off the table. He hauled Brand upright, swinging a huge fist. Brand slammed the toe of his boot into the other’s groin, drawing a howl of pain. The powerful fingers let go of Brand’s jacket, he swung his right fist in a wide loop, catching the big man’s exposed jaw, then slammed the edge of his left hand against the man’s throat. The man gagged, choking, spitting blood. He searched for Brand, eyes staring wildly and in that moment of inactivity Brand stepped in close, sledging hard blows to the big man’s body, over the ribs and the heart. Falling back, trying to gain some space, the big man exposed himself and Brand swung two hard, fast punches to the heavy jaw. The big man rolled sideways, arching towards the floor, his mouth twisted and bloody. He hit hard, arms splayed out wide, a soft moan bubbling from his mouth before he went slack and lay still.
Brand snatched up his hat, slapping the sawdust from it as he returned to the bar. He leaned against it, feeling lightheaded. Dropping the hat on the bar top he reached for the beer Charlie Brown put before him.
“What the hell was that all about?” Brown asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Damned if I know,” Brand replied. “You seen him before?”
Brown shook his head. “Stranger to me. Hell, Jason, right now there are more strangers in town than folk who live here.” Brown fell silent for a moment, studying Brand closely. “He sure enough had a big stick out for you.”
Finishing his beer Brand picked up his hat. “Somebody did,” he said.
He was trying to figure out who. He hadn’t been in Miles City for a long time, and he didn’t believe it was someone out to settle an old score. The big man’s excuse for starting the trouble had been too obvious. So that only left the reason that had brought Brand back to Miles City. His assignment to protect Lord Debenham and find out who was behind the problems involving Debenham’s company. Raven’s name fell into the picture. Was he involved? Brand didn’t dwell on the matter for too long. His head hurt and he wanted some fresh air.
“I’d better move out, Charlie, ‘fore he wakes up.”
Brown nodded. “Take it easy, Jason. I see that look in your eye.” “It’s the beer that does it.” Brand left the saloon, aware of the way he was being watched. Some of the men were close to challenging him with their eyes. The younger ones were edging their way to the fringes of the crowd, sizing him up, almost ready to step out and openly brace him. They were hot with the need to prove themselves against him, and he ignored them because they were young and reckless, and what they wanted was plain foolish. They would put their lives on the line just to be able to stand up against a man with a reputation for being hard. Not one of them would have given a thought to just how much they were risking. Their very lives. One minute they could be young and proud and standing tall, the next they could find themselves down on the floor, rolling about in the sawdust and the spilled liquor, emptying their blood across the scuffed boards. They would be lost in a world full of pain and not one person in that saloon would have given a damn. The wild exuberance of youth was so easily tossed aside, lost in a scant moment of snatched glory — and for what? Brand damned their foolishness, pushing through the crowd and shut himself off from the eyes trying to seek his own, turning his face from their arrogant youthfulness. He was angry. Not angry at them — but angry for them, because he knew exactly what they were going through. He’d gone through the same himself during his wilder days. Against the odds he had survived, and now he knew what foolishness it all was. There was no sense going out looking for trouble. Fate had a way of presenting a man with enough trouble to fill a lifetime. If he survived the youthful years he would soon realize the futility of deliberately seeking the fleeting lure of glory. It was all a myth. A momentary madness that soon cooled with the oncoming of maturity.
He made his way back to the Maqueen House. The sooner he had Debenham in his sight the better he would feel. If he had been right about the big man, the British Lord would bear close watching. Brand began to feel frustration making itself known. This job needed more than one man. There were too many ways for Raven to get to Debenham, and there was no way Brand could cover them all.
Inside the hotel he turned towards the dining room. It was large and at this time it had been decorated for the Stockgrowers’ Ball, which would take place that evening. Scanning the busy breakfast tables Brand spotted Debenham and Sarah at one of the window seats. He swore under his breath. Trust Debenham to go and sit himself right in front of a window. Moving across the lobby Brand sat in a plush chair from where he could see into the dining room and keep an eye on his charge. It wasn’t the most ideal way of keeping watch over Debenham but it would have to do for now.
Tonight there was the ball. In the morning more meetings by the assembled cattlemen. Following those Debenham planned to set out for the high country where the rail track was being laid. At any time, here in town or out on the open range, the man named Raven could spring his trap.
Brand leaned back in his seat. He had a feeling that the next few days were going to be damned busy — one way or another
.
Chapter Three
“JASON, you look positively dashing!”
Sarah Debenham’s smile was dazzling as she stood before him, looking him over. Brand felt like a prize piece of horseflesh being inspected by a prospective purchaser. He didn’t feel dashing, or anything else. He did feel distinctly out of place and utterly miserable in the stiff white shirt and dark suit. He yearned for a faded denim shirt and pants. To be relaxed and comfortable. But that was not to be for now. He was trapped by the rituals of civilization that forced a man to dress like a tailor’s dummy.
He tried to forget his own discomfort by looking Sarah over, and felt a stirring in the pit of his stomach. The girl was damned beautiful. The dress she was wearing for the ball, with its off the shoulder bodice and full skirts, had plainly been made for her by someone who was an artist in cloth. There was not an inch of the dress that didn’t flatter her youthful body. Her shoulders and arms were bare, the flesh smooth and firm, the scooped neck of the bodice artfully exposing the fullness of her upper breasts. Around her neck lay a softly-sparkling diamond necklace, supporting a misty, haloed pearl that nestled gently in the silky cleft between her breasts. As she moved closer to him Brand caught the scent of the perfume she wore. It was subdued yet tantalizing, and the memory of it lingered as he escorted her through to the dining room of the hotel.
Music reached them before they entered. The spacious room had been cleared of its furniture, save for the long tables down one wall holding refreshments and a buffet. Down at the far end sat a six-piece orchestra. The Stockgrowers’ Ball was the highlight of the social year in Miles City, and as such it had attracted the elite. As Brand and Sarah circulated through the crowded room, looking for her father, Sarah pointed out various important members of the Montana cattle industry. Until that night most of them had been nothing more than names to Jason Brand. Now he had a chance to see in the flesh many of the names that spelled success where cattle were concerned — and some that didn’t.
